What of England?
by SirenAlpha
Summary: A man reminds the Pevensie children that there is still something of interest to them in their home town. Twoshot now.
1. Chapter 1

This is another case of it wasn't there so I wrote it. I tend to do it a little too often. In any case I hope you enjoy this different perspective on the relationship between England and Narnia, and the countries and the children.

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><p>Peter looked about London as he travelled to the near only store left in the area with edible produce with his siblings. It had looked terrible before, but now it was too painful to see. Charred remains of buildings stood at the edge of the roads, debris was everywhere. People walking looked up every so often to check the skies despite the raids having stopped. The city was hushed, but the determination to live could still be felt lingering in the air.<p>

Susan did most of the selecting of food. Peter paid, and Edmund and Lucy decided to pool money to buy one sweet for each of them and their mother. Despite all they had been through, the sweet tooth had never disappeared in any of them. They split the load amongst them appropriately, and exited the store for the quiet walk home.

"What's he doing?" Lucy asked after they turned a corner.

Her siblings looked down the street, where she was looking. At the other end was a man in uniform. He carried a bouquet of bright wildflowers, but there was nowhere to get them for miles. He stood perfectly erect, without the stoop most soldiers had. He stopped, and talked to each and every person he met on the street. He kneeled before each child and gifted them with a single flower and a smile visible from where they stood. Somehow, in an almost impossible way, when the people he talked to cheered, the buildings around him cheered as well.

The buildings he passed seemed less charred. The debris seemed a little smaller. The street and sidewalk appeared cleaner. Even the sun seemed to shine a little brighter where he was.

"I don't know," Peter answered truthfully, "He'll be here in a moment, you can ask him, Lu."

She nodded, and smiled at the man as he approached. "Hello," the man greeted, all four were surprised by how young he looked. He looked the same age as they had been before returning through the wardrobe. "Did you lot visit the countryside?"

"Yes, we did," Peter answered quickly and succinctly.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked, casting his eyes between the four of them.

"Oh, yes, very much so," Lucy responded cheerfully.

The man's own smile widened, "Wonderful. Who did you stay with?"

"Professor Digory Kirke," Susan replied.

"Oh, I know him. Quite an interesting fellow, isn't he?" he asked, with a look on his face that almost seemed mischievous.

"Yes," Peter answered, attempting to draw back.

"Are you all," he paused, "related?"

"Yes, we're siblings," Susan replied.

The man's small smile widened, "You're like me then, I'm the youngest of four. We don't get along nearly as well as you do."

"Why not?" Lucy asked.

"It's a long story, child," the man looked away, out into the grey sky over the city, "It hasn't even ended yet."

"I'm sorry for your family, but we must be going," Peter said, cutting the conversation short.

"You act like foreigners," the man said quietly, almost to himself, "You don't remember me, do you?"

All four Pevensie gave the man an odd look. They had never seen him before in their lives. The man pulled off his helmet, and shook out his hair. It wasn't in the short cut of a soldier, but was longer, straight, and choppy. It framed his face near perfectly, and it almost looked like a lion's mane. The Penvensie's felt a quick odd flash of recognition at the sight of the man's hair. The man replaced his helmet, but more of his hair stuck out from underneath it this time.

"Would you care for a flower before you leave?" he asked them.

"We're not children," Edmund said sourly.

"Be that as it may, you're still younger than me," he said, "Here."

He handed a small blue flower to Lucy. She smiled up at him, despite feeling a little annoyance that she was so small. The man smiled back. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of it. It was not the smile of a twenty something. It looked like the smile that the professor wore, or even Aslan's. She suddenly recognized the look in his green eyes. It was the one she saw daily in her sister and brothers. "Thank you," she said before turning away to join her siblings.

"You know," the man said, walking away from them. They turned back to listen, but he never faced them, "You may love her, but she's only a shadow of me. She can't be your home because I am. You may have forgotten me, but you cannot deny me. I am in greater need of the gentle, the just, the valiant, and the magnificent than she is. She may have borrowed you, but you are mine to keep. Never forget where you are from."

The man began walking again, continuing down the street. "Who's she?" Edmund called out to him, too curious to stop himself.

The man looked back at them, "Narnia."

The four stared at him, but he didn't seem to notice. He faced the next people on the street and greeted them. The civilians immediately brightened, as if they had just met up on accident with an old friend they knew well. They watched, and everyone else seemed to know the man. "What do you think he meant by all that? How does he know about Narnia?" Edmund asked.

"I don't know," Peter answered, not liking the feeling.

"Look!" Lucy shouted.

The other three looked down at their sister. In her hands was no longer a small, bright, blue flower, but a large, fully blossomed, deep red rose. "But how?" Susan asked, even the magic in Narnia wasn't quite like this.

"I think that, that man," Lucy said quietly, "was England."

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><p>I hope you enjoyed it! Please review, as it is very much appreciated! Thank you for reading!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

I'm not quite sure why Davy Jones' theme from POTC inspired this, but here it is. The long awaited second chapter, if anyone is interested.

This takes place at the end of The Last Battle when Aslan is destroying Narnia.

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><p>The Pevensie children stood behind Aslan as he stared across the empty land that was once Narnia. The entire space was black and barren, and yet Aslan remained, silently waiting for something. After a few moments, a figure appeared in the blackness. It was a woman, they realized, as it drew closer. As it was illuminated by the sun of where they stood, they saw that she wore fine clothes, full length dress, bejeweled belt, and an elegantly fur trimmed cloak. It was hauntingly familiar to the clothes they had worn as monarchs. Atop her head sat a beautiful crown dazzlingly with jewels that seemed to have been plucked of the color of the land itself. And like the land, the colors were faded, blackening to match its origins.<p>

Despite the finery encasing the body of the woman, for that was what she was and not a spirit of any sort, there was no hiding the wizened face marked with age. This too was familiar to them. It was a face they had seen before, and the feelings attached to it were as close and comforting as their bonds to each other. Still, something was wrong. The features were encased in skin too pale and wrought with sickness. The hair underneath the crown was too long, ragged, and faded white. The wrinkles were etched too deep, and weariness hung to heavy upon her stooping shoulders. She did not notice them, but looked directly at Aslan.

"So you have slain me?" she asked politely, perhaps reverently, but not with surprise. This voice, too, was familiar, but too different. It was weak, sorrowful, tinged with pain, and filled with guilt. It was the voice of a woman far too old.

"It is not I who must slay you," Aslan told her, and the woman's eyes widened, "It is your host who must slay you. He has waited patiently for this day."

As Aslans words slipped away, the dark sky dipped. It was as if the land was underwater, and they were watching a droplet fall onto the surface. The dip twisted and colored, and before them was deposited a man. They could only see the back of him. From his shoulders draped a floor length red cloak, the color of a sun rise. The color was too vibrant for the empty world, too full of the life that no longer existed there. It was also trimmed in fur, the well remember pattern of white with black spots. He wore a crown over sandy, messy hair that was smaller but crafted intricately and perfectly with gems of a different nature. His shoulders were straight and broad, and they could tell he was young.

They tensed as they heard a sword being drawn from its sheath. They can tell from the way the cloak shifts that it is the young man before them who is preparing for the attack, but they do not see the blade. They can see him shift on his feet, and all their years spent looking for such signs are present in their minds.

"This is the first we meet, and here you are to kill me," the woman said, but she did not sound sad. She had long ago accepted her fate. She would never attempt to change it, and had long since learned that she can't.

"I gave you what you needed, and now you may no longer steal from me," the man replied. His voice was firm, deep, and contained no sorrow. He was not sad to see her die, not even by his hand. He had dutifully given her what she had needed to live, what she had done with it was her choice. Now, he was ready to part with this shadow of his, and he would not miss it.

In one swift motion, the woman's head was lobbed off. The three Pevensies gasped, feeling hurt by this woman's death. It was like a close friend had just died right before their eyes, but the feeling faded and ebbed surprisingly quickly. Neither the man nor Aslan made any sort of noise at the silent death of the woman. The head and crown did not make a sound hitting the ground, and simply fell away into the darkness. The body tumbled after.

The man turned, and bowed to Aslan one hand against his chest still clutching his sword. The Pevensies noticed that it was not stained with blood. The man then turned to face them, greeting them with a smile. They can only stare at him wide eyed for it is the soldier they had met so long ago in the streets of London, a place so vastly different from where they stood now. The memory of that meeting had faded, and they had never once expected to see him again. His smile slowly disappeared as they stared at him. He only looked at them perhaps disappointedly, or ruefully, or even just plain sadly.

"You forgot again," he said to them, and his words felt so heavy, "Despite what I told you, you did not try to remember me. You still focused on _her. _Not even all of you came back for her! "

"Do not be so harsh on them," Aslan interrupted, "I was the one that brought them here."

"But you were never mine, and you never once swore allegiance to me," the soldier dressed, somehow suitingly, as a king said, "They did, and it was their choice to remember me or not."

They felt like small children before this man and Aslan. It was as if they had been scolded by their mother when she still held sway over their actions, and they stared down at their toes. They heard him draw closer to them with even footsteps. They glanced up, surprised when he kneeled before them. He placed one hand on Lucy's arm, and one on Edmund's, and looked directly at Peter. They watched him silently.

"Still, you were born my children, and you always will be a child of mine,"

He looked at them so lovingly, so caringly, that they felt tears fall from their eyes. "England!" Lucy cried, launching herself at the man, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face against him. He wrapped his arms around her, and rubbed his hands against her back soothingly.

All three children wept. They wept for he was their homeland and their nation who, too, had suffered. Who, too, had needed them. Who, too, had taught them. Who, too, had welcomed them. They wept for the opportunity they had rejected to serve their country. England dried their tears, and he was not angry. He only smiled. He sent them to their new home with a single rose.

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><p>I am now going to kill the mood. This is the wierdest thing I have ever written. Not so much the plot, but the style. I feel kind of bad for knocking off Narnia, but she did die in the books. I reinforced the themes in the first chapter, and this is most definitely the end of this story. This is also probably the only time I will ever write a nation calling its citizens its children. I just always thought it was a little weird. I hope you enjoyed reading, and please review!<p> 


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